


I, Orphan Maker

by Wiccy



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dark, Demons, Different POV of Canon Event, Gen, Loss of Control, POV Yasha (Critical Role), Trapped, Trick or Treat 2019, Trick or Treat: Trick, hopelessness and despair, waking nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 06:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21156857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiccy/pseuds/Wiccy
Summary: A character study of Yasha during the raid on the Cobalt Soul in Zadash.





	I, Orphan Maker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infernal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/gifts).

She wasn’t sure how they got here or where they were before. It was so difficult to keep track, to remember, to hold onto her awareness. If she were asked, she probably wouldn’t be able to tell you where they were currently. There were books and scrolls, she was surrounded by words and knowledge but none of it belonged to her. She only knew that her mind and her body were not her own and that Obann wants her to do this. To cut them a path through these people. These monks in shades of blue who remind her so much of… of something – or someone – that she can’t quite remember. Something important to whoever she was – is? – in the time before this darkness and pain. The time before this struggle. 

She could feel her body moving, her arms swinging out to bring her unholy blade around in arcs that swathed the hallways in blood and screams. Behind her the maniacal, many voiced laughter of her other companion ebbed and flowed in time with the amount of carnage he himself was causing. Even in her current state of nothingness – or perhaps because of it – that laughter was chilling. It tore at the veils that hid her terror and allowed it freedom. She wish the creature were dead, or at least that it might kill her and end this. Something hit her in the shoulder from behind and she could feel that familiar surge as the rage took over her body, bathing her vision in crimson. She drove forward, swings becoming reckless and wild, the force causing blood to spatter backward from her blade and across her face in crisscrossing patterns – new tribal tattoos to mark this journey through hell.

Locked away, a passenger inside her own body; screaming and clawing and pushing against the invisible bonds – when she could remember that she wanted, needed, to do so. It was like some kind of living death. One of the nine hells was the only thing this could be, and Obann was her own personal demon. A devil sent to torment her for all the evil things she’d done, even the ones she couldn’t remember, especially the ones she was doing now. She could see and feel all of it. She wasn’t in control. This wasn’t her, it was just her body acting of someone else’s accord. She told herself that she didn’t want to do these things, but she could not deny what she knew. There was a part of her – the part allowing Obann control perhaps, the part that contained all her rage, the part of her that was built for this – that gloried in this as much as either of her companions, perhaps more. It was knowledge that broke her heart and horrified her soul. It was knowledge that made her struggle against it all the more urgent and yet more difficult. In these moments she tried to picture flowers, something beautiful from her memory to give her strength in these times of despair, but each time their petals were stained with blood and decay and they withered away into blackened shadows of themselves - dark reflections of the wings unfurled at her back.

Somewhere from the distant plains of her mind a crack of thunder rolled, a brewing storm announcing itself with urgency, but she could not seem to bring it into focus. Could not seem to capture why it felt so important before if faded away into silence. The invisible chains tightened. Her head shifted to the figure just beyond the broken door before her. Her demon calling his weapons forth. He had found whatever it was he was seeking in this temple of learning converted to palace of slaughter. She went to him, a slave to his whims and the treachery of her own body. He reached out a hand for each of them, ready to move on, to take them to the next killing grounds. She could feel her hand moving to oblige even as she willed it not to. Her eyes were the only part of her which she could still call her own and so she used them to do the only thing she could. She looked upon the destruction her weakness had wrought and she wept.


End file.
